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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27829831">While There Is Life</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/silenth/pseuds/silenth'>silenth</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Time is what you make of it [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Twilight (Movies), Twilight Series - All Media Types, Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 19:34:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,792</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27829831</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/silenth/pseuds/silenth</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A short take on the Cullens' experience during the AIDS epidemic. Posted for World AIDS Day, 2020.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Carlisle Cullen/Esme Cullen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Time is what you make of it [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1953487</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>While There Is Life</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>1987</p><p>Mikey Ryan couldn't believe how fast it had gone. He was 20 years old and his life seemed to have sped by like an afternoon at the movies. </p><p>He was always a movie fanatic, like his dad. Maybe that was how his trouble had started. Back when he was a kid, him and his dad would stay up late and watch old Westerns or bad sci-fi B movies on the late picture show. His dad always fell asleep on the couch before the show was over, exhausted from pulling 10 or 12 hour shifts. Before he turned off the TV and went to bed, Mikey would pull the old afghan his granny had knitted over his dad's feet. </p><p>Then on Saturdays, when his dad was pulling a double shift at the auto garage he owned, trying to balance the books, Mikey would go to the movies and memorize the best parts, so he could come home and act them out for his dad later. His dad always said he did Jack Nicholson almost better than the man himself. </p><p>That was what gave him the confidence to start trying out for plays when he was in high school. His dad always came, sat in the front row even, which wasn't a small thing. Wearing make-up and singing in musicals basically screamed out that you were a homo, at least in the small town in South Carolina where he'd grown up. </p><p>Mikey always got the impression his dad knew deep-down how he was, and that his dad didn't care so much. But he also knew the men in the neighborhood, the guys who worked at his father's shop and the ones who kept the shop in business, they'd care plenty. So he did his theater and played shortstop too, and dated girls and kept his head down, his hair cut short because long hair, that was faggier than musicals. He was the epitome of what his small town expected boys to be and he knew his dad was grateful that he never caused trouble, that he never had to explain to his friends why his son was the way he was. It would have been too embarrassing for his dad to take. Bad enough Mikey wasn't big enough to play football like his dad had. </p><p>And then, as soon as he graduated high school, he headed off for New York City.</p><p>Mikey was so full of fire then. He couldn't wait to leave home, couldn't wait to run off to the big city where he'd be free. His first night there he kissed a boy-- a man, actually, with a jaw full of stubble-- in the bar closest to the bus terminal, and the man had laughed and stuck his hands in the back pockets of Mikey's jeans. He said, "You <em>are</em> fresh off the bus, aren't you, kid?" and pulled Mikey to the dirty bar bathroom to suck him off. </p><p>It wasn't ever just the sex - it was the freedom. Being able to walk through the city with a group of boys like him, going to clubs where they could dance together. Falling asleep with his head on his friend Jerry's shoulder on the subway. Being tender and unashamed, that was the longing that had pierced him the most in Tennessee. </p><p>His father hadn't ever been able to hug him, not once in his life, and he knew his dad loved him with his whole heart. Sometimes when Mikey sat beside him, watching <em>Red River</em> or <em>The Masque of the Red Death</em> on TV, his dad would pat his big calloused hand on Mikey's head, like he petted their dog, but that was it. He hadn't even hugged him when Mikey left on the bus the day after he graduated. </p><p>Mikey'd always been his favorite kid, maybe because he was easier than his older sisters, who both went through screaming, door-slamming phases that left his dad completely confused. Or maybe because he was the last thing his mom left behind in this world. His dad always said that his mom's last words and thoughts were about him. </p><p>They had only wanted a simple life, his folks - his dad would fix cars and his mom would keep the books, they would have a few kids and take them down to the lake in the summer. Love each other til the day they died. </p><p>When she was barely eight months pregnant with him, his mom went into labor prematurely. Somehow he managed to pull through, but he was always scrawny, especially compared to his 6'5" dad and all his cousins and uncles on his dad's side. His mom died, leaving his dad with three kids to raise and a shattered heart. He'd been lost and lonely pretty much ever since, falling asleep on the couch every night because he still hated sleeping in their bed. </p><p>But his first year in New York, Mikey didn't think about his dad much. He called him a couple of times, but his dad wasn't much of a talker and he never seemed excited about Mikey's news. Trying to make it as an actor was hard, even humiliating sometimes, because some of the guys he went up against at auditions had real training, Actor's Studio and shit, but Mikey had talent. People told him he was good enough to get a part on a soap at the very least, and he could always make money waiting tables or moving furniture while he waited for his big break. </p><p>He and his friends were perpetually moving from one shitty apartment to another, always a month behind on the rent. Sometimes he would go home with some old queen from the Upper West Side, would wake up in their apartment in the morning and eat that weird lox shit they liked, and steal a bag of bagels to share with his friends. That could last them a week.</p><p>By the time he was nineteen, Mikey had gained a credit in one off-off Broadway play that closed after three performances and a bad chest cold that he couldn't shake. He was tired all the time, even when he slept ten or twelve hours a night. Some nights he went home with a stranger if they were willing to buy a cab, just because he was too tired to walk. It really fucking blew, he thought, because this was the summer his career was going to take off. He got a call-back for a tiny part on a soap and then, finally, he got offered the role of the Barber in <em>Man of La Mancha</em>. </p><p>Okay, it wasn't on Broadway. It wasn't even in New York - it was upstate, in some little podunk town with a small liberal arts college and a yearly summer stock program. Still, it was a job and they were paying him a tiny stipend, plus room and board.</p><p>The next play they were doing was <em>Glengarry Glen Ross</em>. He knew he was too young for any of those parts, but he was friends with the lighting director and he told Mikey he could get him a job dressing sets once <em>La Mancha</em> ended. Mikey could stay up there all summer, bunk down with the other actors and crew members in shitty on-campus housing. It was going to be a great summer, and he would be back in New York after Labor Day with credits and experience under his belt. </p><p>Then, the first week of dress rehearsals, Mikey saw the star of the play, the guy playing Quixote, taking his shirt off backstage during the show. Paul was maybe forty, tall and austere-looking. If he'd been born a few decades earlier, he could have had a career as a mysterious scientist in the B movies Mikey used to watch with his dad. Mikey had noticed he was skinny, ribs jutting out under his skin like one of the mangy dogs that lived in the woods back in South Carolina. He coughed sometimes when he had to sustain a long note in a song. Mikey never thought anything of it, really, until that afternoon, the day Paul took his shirt off, when he heard the woman who played Aldonza talking to the stage manager. </p><p>They were all standing back behind the theater, smoking. Aldonza was always bumming smokes off him, trying to keep her weight down for the show.</p><p>"Can you believe they hired Paul for this? There's no way he'll make it to opening night. And what are the people in this town going to think? They can't stand us being here anyway, now there's a bunch of infected queers running around, swimming in their pools."</p><p>The stage manager shook his head. "It's a tragedy, Linda, stop making jokes. Did you see the lesions on his back today?"</p><p>"Those black things?" Mikey asked. "Those are just bruises, aren't they? I have 'em too." </p><p>The stage manager turned to him slow. "Hey, pull up your shirt, kid. Lemme see." Mikey showed him his chest, the weird black spots that had showed up on his chest a couple months before. </p><p>Aldonza took two big steps away from him when she saw them, her eyes wide. She stubbed out the cigarette Mikey had given her. </p><p>That was how he knew it was bad.</p><p> </p><p>And now, six months later, here he was, in this tiny bed in a room at the hospital in that little upstate town. He realized he would never get out of this room. These yellow walls would be the last ones he would ever see. How was that possible?</p><p>He had cancer by the time they diagnosed him with AIDS. The plague, Mikey's friends had called it. He'd heard of it, sure, but he thought it was for those old fags on the Upper West Side, people who'd lived their life already and were coasting on fumes. Not for young, strong kids like him. </p><p>"Unfortunately this virus affects the young as severely as the old," the doctor had told him when he explained what was happening to Mikey's body. He was a young guy too, blonde and cute, even if he was serious most of the time and sorta nerdy. Dr. Cullen. He took care of all of them, was there at all hours of the day or night, always willing to explain something or listen to them rant.</p><p>It was Mikey and Paul, their Don Quixote from <em>La Mancha</em>, in the room, along with the front of house manager and the Richard Roma actor from <em>Glengarry</em>. Probably there were more of the cast and crew who got checked into hospitals once the summer ended and they headed back to New York, but for the four of them, this little hospital was the end of the road.</p><p>"Treatments for this disease are limited, but I am reviewing the latest research and I'm hopeful we can get you into some experimental trials," Dr. Cullen told them. He was the only doctor who would really treat them. When he took his rare days off, there was another guy who came in, but he barely looked at them and would never touch them. Dr. Cullen did, even though his hands were always cold. He joked about what poor circulation he had. Mikey could relate, he was cold all the time too, even when he had a fever. </p><p>During the summer, the cast and crew had visited him, but once Labor Day came and they all moved on, nobody showed up anymore. They got bored and antsy pretty quick, so Dr. Cullen had his wife come up and visit them. Mikey thought it was a pity visit at first, but he realized pretty soon Esme (that was Dr. Cullen's wife and she made everybody call her that, even the nurses) wasn't like that. </p><p>She was sweet as honey through and through. Beautiful too, with light brown curls that always shone in the ugly fluorescent lighting. She had golden eyes like the doctor did, and she looked as pale and dark-circled weary as he did most of the time too. </p><p>Seth, the Richard Roma from <em>Glengarry</em>, used to tease her about it. Told her if he had a husband as handsome as Dr. Cullen, boy, he would look as tired as she did. Esme laughed like a song and shook her hair back. "I'm the luckiest woman in the world, Seth, and don't think I don't know it. But if you make eyes at my Carlisle, I won't bring you any more caramels, so watch out!"</p><p>She did stuff like that, brought them caramels and chocolates and flowers and gossip rags to read. The hospital gave them one stingy room and they were all crammed in on top of each other. It only had one window and that looked out on another building, so there wasn't anything to look at even. </p><p>When she saw the bad view they had, Esme even brought them a TV, claiming she had one at home she wasn't using anymore. The nurses said the patients on the other wards were jealous as hell, since it was a big fancy new TV, but of course none of them could take it because it had been on the AIDS ward, and it was probably contaminated. At least that was one good thing about this shitty disease. </p><p>When there were good movies on, they would all take turns acting them out. He usually started it-- Terry, the front of house manager, used to say Mikey was the biggest ham he'd ever met. It turned out Terry did a killer Charles Bronson when they got him going, but everybody admitted Mikey was the best Nicholson. </p><p>And when the soaps were on - forget it. Terry took them seriously and gradually got more and more annoyed as he shushed them, and the other three of them would try to hold in their laughter and eventually explode.</p><p>In the middle of the night when one of them woke the others up coughing or retching, Mikey would roll over and murmur some quote from a recent episode, like, "I'm a man, Audrey, I'm a <em>man</em> again!" Even Terry would have to laugh when he did that one.</p><p>Sometimes in the evenings, Esme brought her brother by. He would wheel in a proper piano and play for them. He lived with her and the doctor, and so did a couple of her cousins and their boyfriend and girlfriend. Mikey half wondered if they were secretly a hippie commune or some kind of weird cult. </p><p>Esme's brother, Edward, looked as pale and beautiful as she and the doctor did. He was more Mikey's type, lanky with reddish brown hair that was always messy. Plus, he played beautifully and somehow knew everything they requested, no matter how obscure. Mikey would flirt with him sometimes and Edward would go all shy and stuttery. He thought it was partly an act, but it made him feel good to think he might still have it, even now when he felt like his body was decaying with him trapped inside it.</p><p>Paul always made Edward close with "The Impossible Dream," since he never got to go on as Quixote. Mikey got to really hate that song - it was way too maudlin and sappy for the situation they were in, and Paul could barely rasp it out by the end. </p><p>When Paul finally died, just after Halloween, Mikey heard his family wouldn't claim his body. The Cullens paid for his burial, which some of his friends bussed up from the city to attend. The doc asked him if he wanted to go, but he hadn't been to a funeral since his granny's, back in South Carolina, and it was cold and wet that day, and by then it hurt to sit up for too long. </p><p>The kind nurse, Joanie, went and she told him the Cullens put on a real lovely service. They had Paul's favorite quote from <em>La Mancha</em> engraved on his tombstone:</p><p>I come in a world of iron to make a world of gold.</p><p>Mikey liked that a lot, the thought of it, that maybe he and Paul and Terry and Seth and the men like them had come to make a more beautiful world. "It may not be perfect," he told Esme, "but you know it'll be more colorful and <em>louder</em>." </p><p> </p><p>Now, it was January, and he was alone in this stinking hospital room, and it wasn't loud anymore because everyone else was dead. </p><p>After Paul, the rest of them had fallen like dominoes. The last one was Terry, who made it to the beginning of December and went crazy before he died, ranting and screaming at things no one could see.</p><p>Mikey had hope until then. It was stupid, but he thought somehow Dr. Cullen would pull some magic out of his bag of tricks or his body would rally somehow, remember that hey, he was only 20 years old and wasn't supposed to die 'til he was at least 45. </p><p>He had written to his dad a couple weeks before Christmas, told him what was happening and asked him to come. He hadn't wanted to do it, he knew it was going to kill his dad to see him like this, but selfishly, he really wanted to see his dad again. To feel his dad's big rough hand brush over his head again, just one more time before he was gone. </p><p>He asked Esme about it that morning - or he thought he had, it was so hard now to keep track of simple things like what time it was. "Has my dad written back?"</p><p>"I'm sure he will any day, Mikey," she soothed him. She brushed his dark hair back from his forehead - he knew he had a fever because her hands felt so good and cool against his skin. "Try to rest, and when you wake up, I'll read to you again."</p><p>Mikey slept a lot of the time, or kept his eyes closed because his sight was so blurry now anyway. Sometimes he would hear snatches of conversation between Dr. Cullen and Esme, things he didn't understand.</p><p>"The only positive thing is that it doesn't appear from my experiments that consuming their blood has any impact on us."</p><p>"But these poor people, Carlisle. There are people like Mikey all over the world. What can be done for them?"</p><p>"Rosalie is reaching out to doctors in Europe and Asia. There isn't enough money for research - people are incapable of showing them even that much kindness." The doctor sounded angry, angrier than Mikey had ever heard him. "Dr. Peterson wants me to transfer Mikey to a bigger hospital, stop wasting our resources on him--"</p><p>"You can't! He wouldn't make it."</p><p>"No, of course not. I'll stay with him, until the end. I don't think it will be long now."</p><p>"Joanie and I will stay with him at night, so you can go home and eat."</p><p>"Esme." He feels their shadows moving closer to each other, even through his closed eyes. "I love you, my dearest."</p><p> </p><p>When he woke up the next time, Edward was there, playing something moody and slow. He licked his dry chapped lips as the music stopped, muttered, "Play something a little sadder, would you, hey?"</p><p>Edward came closer, lifted a straw to his mouth so he could drink a little. "Any requests?" he asked when he put the glass of water back down on Mikey's bedside table.</p><p>"My granny used to sing me some old song..." He tried to hum it. "You know that one?"</p><p>Edward turned back around and played a bit of it. "'I lost my little darling the night they were playing / That beautiful Tennessee Waltz,'" he crooned in his young, strong voice. Mikey's voice had been like that once. He tried to hold on to that memory, screaming out lyrics in a club, dancing bare-chested under flashing lights. He had lived, he had been alive. It felt so very far away now. </p><p>"That's an old song," Edward said softly, his fingers moving over the piano keys.</p><p>"My granny liked it - she grew up in Tennessee."</p><p>"Did she? I have a friend from Gatlinburg."</p><p>Mikey huffed out a little laugh. "Small word, friend. My granny was from there too. She moved to South Carolina when she married my pappy."</p><p>"What was her name?" Edward asked, but Mikey was lost in the fog again and couldn't think of it to tell him.</p><p> </p><p>Mikey had filled out forms when he entered the hospital. Carlisle always took a thorough family history, even in cases like this when the disease wasn't genetic. It was there in black and white - </p><p>Name of Grandparents: <strong>Sally McCarty Ryan (paternal). </strong></p><p>"His grandmother was your sister," Esme told Emmett. It made sense, as strange and coincidental as it was. This boy was thin, so horribly thin now, but when he found the strength to smile, his grin was wide and dimpled like Emmett's. He had dark hair, dark eyebrows, and eyes so blue they looked like bits of the sky had fallen onto his face. </p><p>"Damn," Emmett muttered. He held up a picture of the boy. Not a boy really, they were exactly the same age, give or take Emmett's extra decades idling at the age of 20. His great-nephew, lying near death in a hospital so far from home. "I can see it in his face. I always thought Sal would marry the youngest Ryan boy. He used to hang around her after church every week." </p><p>Esme had taken pictures on the ward for all the months she had been there. He flipped through them, watching the men fade away and abruptly disappear from the room until only Mikey was left. </p><p>"You should do something," Esme told him, reaching out for his hand. He knew how much she loved that boy, everyone in the family did. She had spent months sitting beside his bed, reading to him and talking to him, listening to his stories about his family and his dreams for what his life was going to be. What it could have been. He wanted to be an actor-- in the theater if he could, though he had gotten a callback for a role on a soap opera once, and that would be okay. His dad had a TV in the garage where he worked, maybe he could turn it on and watch him on it and it'd be like they were together again. </p><p>"What's his dad's name?" Emmett asked.</p><p>"Francis," Esme answered and Emmett shook his head. </p><p>"That was my father's name." He picked up another picture of Esme and Mikey sitting together, his mother staring at that boy with so much love in her face. That was Esme all over. He wondered who had taken it. </p><p>"When should I come?" Emmett asked at last. </p><p> </p><p>Esme led Emmett through the room in the moonlight. It echoed with the music Edward had played there once, with the songs that the boys had sung when they had the breath to do it. Now there were only Mikey's rattling breaths, the final fragile defense against the blackness. Soon, only silence would be left. </p><p>Emmett sat beside the boy, his trucker hat pulled low over his face. His hands were as big as Mikey's dad and he had rubbed motor oil on them, since he knew his nephew owned an auto garage. "Mikey, I'm here, son."</p><p>The boy stirred, tried to open his eyes. He could barely see now. AIDS took even that in the end. He weighed maybe 60 pounds soaking wet and Emmett took his hand like he would lift a featherless baby bird that had fallen from a nest. </p><p>"Dad? Dad?"</p><p>"Shh. Yes, it's me. I'm sorry it took me so long, but I'm here now." He pressed his hand against the boy's feverish head, and Mikey's cracked lips tried to smile.</p><p> </p><p>Esme sat on the other side of the bed, her hand pressed against her mouth to hold in the scream. She had been holding in her scream for months, since the first time she walked into that room and saw death lingering in it as clearly as her Alice would have. </p><p>And this boy, the final one, Mikey. At the beginning, his eyes were full of hope. He wanted to go back to New York soon, he told her the first time she met him. He hadn't been there long but he loved the city in autumn, the way it smelled and all the window displays, even the tacky ones. He reminded her so much of what she had hoped her baby would be, passionate and loving and kind. And soon he would join her little son in that next place, leaving another crack in her heart. </p><p>Emmett talked to Mikey for an hour, even after he stopped responding and his breath slowed. A few times they thought it was the end, but then he would gasp for air again and Carlisle would move past her to take his pulse. Emmett kept talking through it all. He sang <em>Tennessee Waltz</em> and an older song, a mountain song that he hadn't sung in decades. </p><p>"This is one your great-grandmother used to sing it to your granny and her brothers. Of course, they're all gone now. They're waiting for you up there. Your mom's up there too. You'll see her soon. She hasn't seen you for a long time, but she'll know you. She'll know you right off."</p><p>He died just before dawn broke.</p><p> </p><p>Carlisle told her later that he had initially predicted Mikey would die by December. He had made it an extra month on the hope that his father would come. And three days after he died, his father wrote back. </p><p>"'He said, yes, of course he would come. He has to find someone to watch the garage and then he'll come up and stay with Mikey until he's better.'" Carlisle held out the letter to Esme, but she shook her head and he laid it down on the bed between them. "What should I tell him?" he asked her at last. </p><p>She shook her head, opened the album she had made the day the hospital room was deep-cleaned and disinfected so it could be used for other patients. She thought of the woman in the market who had refused to sell her flowers when she said she was bringing them to the AIDS patients in the hospital. "That's disgusting," the old lady had hissed at her. </p><p>Esme tried to see the best in everyone, but this disease had challenged the depths of her compassion. How could anyone look at people suffering so much, screaming for help and being ignored by their own government, and call them disgusting, or abominations? But she knew so many did. She stared at the pictures of the four of them, Terry and Seth and Paul and young, fresh-faced Mikey, in their hospital gowns, unable to hide their sores and bruises. Sometimes she despaired for this world.</p><p>Carlisle wrote a beautiful letter in his careful old-fashioned script, telling Mikey's father that his son died peacefully, how he seemed to feel his father's presence around him that night. He described how Mikey spoke to his father, telling him he always knew his dad would come. </p><p>Esme went through the meager possessions Mikey had in the hospital. The marked-up script for the play he had come to town to perform, some magazines and some dried flowers from one of the bouquets she had brought them. At the bottom of the cardboard box was a book she thought he remembered Terry reading before he died, some biography of a politician. She flipped through it and saw Mikey's messy handwriting scrawled in the margin of one page -- "THIS."</p><p>As signs from the beyond went, there couldn't be a clearer one. Esme read the passage, describing a speech the politician had given several times. The excerpt reminded her of Mikey's last few months, what he tried to do in that stinking little room, watching everyone die one by one, how he tried to keep them laughing and singing as they did.</p><p>Carlisle had planned to close the letter with a quote from Cicero - Ægroto dum anima est, spes est. "To the sick, while there is life there is hope." But Esme knew this worked better:</p><p>
  <strong>Without hope, not only gays, but those blacks, and the Asians, and the disabled, and the seniors-- the Us-es-- without hope, the Us-es give up. I know that you cannot live on hope alone, but without it, life is not worth living. </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>And you and you and you, you gotta give them hope. </strong>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The speech at the end is from Harvey Milk's "Hope Speech," which he gave on numerous occasions prior to his murder in 1978, at the age of 48. This particular wording was taken from this YouTube video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g1FZP5GUMRs</p><p>Remember the real victims of AIDS here: https://www.instagram.com/theaidsmemorial</p><p>Donate to amfAR here: https://www.amfar.org</p><p>Donate to National Minority AIDS Council here: https://www.nmac.org/</p><p>The world is a dark place. Give somebody hope if you can.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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